Silhouette
by ditzymagic
Summary: He had laughed at everyone's pain and put up pedestals no one had ever been allowed to reach. He had been a wizard once and he had wanted to rule the world.


**A/N:**

**Written for the International Wizarding School Championship.**

**School and Year: Durmstrang, Year 3**

**Theme: Cruciatus**

**Prompts: Lord Voldemort [Main], Azkaban, Dementor**

**Word Count: 1446**

* * *

_Silhouette_

He was not a stranger to pain. After all, he had found such delight in agony. He had inflicted it on others. He had inflicted it on himself. He had laughed at everyone's pain and put up pedestals no one had ever been allowed to reach. He had been a wizard once and he had wanted to rule the world.

Now, he is a wraith. A creature guarding the realm of darkness.

He does not remember everything.

But sometimes, he gets a fleeting memory, a wisp of something before the emptiness chases it away. It is not enough to tell him _why_ is here, but it is enough to know he is in Azkaban – a fortress of despair and torment.

All he knows for certain is this – his name was Lord Voldemort and he had pursued immortality at the cost of his own soul.

* * *

Lord Voldemort remembers the agony the first time he had split his soul into two halves.

He had killed the girl who had nearly destroyed everything. Myrtle Warren's death had not been deliberate, but it had been quite useful. He had felt triumphant when he had successfully cast the spell to make a horcrux.

It had been such an extraordinary moment.

But as his soul had riven, he had fallen to his knees, feeling an agonizing pain that had him retching and passing out later.

He had risen again, powerful and immortal at last.

So what if his soul had yearned and cried for the other half of it?

So what if the pain had never really gone away?

It had not mattered.

Now, he is barely a creature. And his shattered soul still desperately longs to reunite with its other half. It claws and scratches in its fragile cage, taut with tension and livid to get out somehow.

But he is Lord Voldemort and even as a broken soul, he feels no remorse.

* * *

When he had come to realize his black, shadowy form, he had understood the implications. He had understood that despite all his plans for immortality, his piece of the soul had perished somehow.

It had troubled him greatly.

How could someone kill an immortal?

But such was his fate now, doomed to exist in the land of the living and the dead – caught in a limbo. Existing as a Dementor, shackled to the prison and nothing else.

He is sure fate is laughing at him now. Lord Voldemort would never die – not because he is immortal but because he is not quite alive. His broken soul whimpers in sorrow but still, he feels no guilt.

* * *

Lord Voldemort understands why the Dementors float so close to Azkaban and why they guard the prisoners so greedily. They have to feed themselves somehow, even if it is a fleeting happy memory of one of the prisoners. It is the only way for them to remember anything but the desolation of their vanquished existence.

He wonders what happened to the other half of him. He wishes his other self had not been foolish enough to split the soul further.

But from time to time, he feels a piercing pain in his soul and he knows that is not the case.

So, he floats around the fortress, his black shadow terrorizing his victims. He would relish the screams and cries if he only knew what relish truly felt like.

* * *

He watches.

He guards.

He waits.

* * *

After some time, there is always an influx of prisoners. This is the only time he feels any hunger. As one, the Dementors descend on the new souls, willing to tear them apart but the threat of the light keeps them from doing so. Hence, they devour in small doses.

There are some prisoners who resist – those who bury their happiness deep inside their souls and never let a thought venture out.

These souls are challenging and worth the wait. Even the most desolate souls have some sort of happiness inside their vessels and Lord Voldemort loves a challenge.

When those prisoners give in, and they _always_ do, he swoops in to capture his prey. As he consumes them little by little, his fragmented soul laments the loss. The brief happiness he feels when he is consuming a soul always rattles him. His vessel is not used to happiness but that ache is less than what he always feels.

So he does not stop.

The Light-Makers warn him away, shining a light so bright he has no choice but to fly away. But he always comes back, determined to drain every bit of joy dry from these vessels.

It is not like they can kill him.

When he watches the blank eyes and the mindlessness, he tells himself that he consumes the souls of others, because he cannot unite with his own.

But then again, Lord Voldemort has always been good at fooling himself.

* * *

Some time ago, a prisoner had arrived in Azkaban. His desperate cries and agonizing screams had echoed through the cursed halls of the fortress.

For months, Lord Voldemort had been going to the prisoner, getting anxious to devour the soul that reeked of despair and yet hid a healthy heart filled with something like happiness. It was possible to bury the happiness deep inside but no human was capable of that without cracking.

So, he haunted the prisoner day and night – sticking close to the cell to make sure he never missed a single happy thought. But all he found was more despair and a strange emptiness he was unused to. It was unusual – he could _smell_ the fear but he could never reach the soul.

No matter how odd this soul was, Lord Voldemort knew he _had_ to consume it.

He is hovering near the small window when he hears the whimper. He almost rejoices but then it is only a nightmare. He floats in the air, back against the full moon and he waits.

The prisoner never lets his guard down and Lord Voldemort is suitably impressed. However, that has only made the chase better and he continues to prey upon the soul, never leaving the prisoner alone.

One night, as Lord Voldemort lingers near the cell, a scratched voice calls out–

"Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Lord Voldemort is startled, he had not known his form had been so easily distinguishable from the others. But then, he _is_ Lord Voldemort and–

"Leave me alone!"

And that is the moment he snoops in, catching and consuming the happy memories before he encounters the strange blankness again. As he devours the few moments he got, the piercing agony almost makes him snarl. The pain is different this time – it is sharper and deeper than it has ever been. He wonders if it is because the little bit of soul he just had devoured had been pure.

But he does not care.

He will consume that soul, no matter the cost.

* * *

The Prisoner of Azkaban escapes.

Lord Voldemort is as livid and greedy as his form allows him to be.

And so, the chase truly begins.

For the first time, Lord Voldemort is allowed to leave the fortress. He would have felt relief but he has only one goal as he leaves Azkaban – to find the soul he had marked as his.

* * *

He is relentless in his pursuit, uncaring of the many he frightens and injures in the process. The agonizing pain reminds him that the wisps of souls he has eaten had been pure and _young_. But the realization is only second to the reality that he had followed his prey straight to Hogwarts.

Something about the school makes the yearning of his soul unbearable. He hovers at a distance, senses attuned to the scent of the prisoner. As days pass, his agony gets worse.

It gets so bad that when he finally catches the scent of his prisoner, he almost drains the pure souls of his prey and another dry. The pain he feels nearly destroys him.

But he is Lord Voldemort and he cannot be killed.

As a bright light chases him away, he wonders if this existence is a curse.

* * *

He is back at Azkaban, without his prisoner. More souls come and go, some he consumes without a thought while others he saves for later.

But he never forgets the soul of the prisoner. He has never eaten a pure soul before and he wonders what it would do to him. Judging by the agony he had felt every time he had eaten a wisp of the soul, if he actually manages to consume it whole, it just might ruin him.

But he is Lord Voldemort and the threat of ruination has never stopped him before.

* * *

_-fin-_


End file.
